One of my many intentions while here in Belgium was to write a lyrical essay as I experienced my exchange. It was a style of prose I was introduced to at the Young Writer's Institute the summer before I came, and I've loved it ever since. Essentially (at least in my definition), a lyrical essay is an ensemble of poetry which revolves around a certain theme or is written during a set period of time. It may be surrealist and appear to make no sense at all, or it may be very descriptive and appeal to all the senses; it simply depends on the style of the writer, as does any style of prose.

I never truly began to write with intent to finally make the essay, which explains the lack of correlation between the poetry that I've written here. Instead, I simply wrote to express myself (like always) in a notebook that I constantly carried with me, and this is the collection of some of that poetry, month by month, in my own kind of lyrical essay.

Don't worry if you don't understand; most of the time I don't even know what or how I'm writing. It's the beauty of surrealism and the subconscious of a higher reality.

AUGUST:

if i discovered the world, i would have thought this was the end of it.

clouds melting into ice, ice melting into rays of white,

a puddle of mid-winter familiar to the trod of thick-soled boots.

plastic window at my fingertips blinds me but to a

wrinkled smile of recent laughter

asking me, "what do you want to be?"

i don't know, nor do i know the you

"youth never will. 74 years still haven't given me the answer."

comment dit-on life en français? c'est la vie.

try to speak words, but only stuttered incongruencies.

see those eyes they dream,

as she melts the chocolat by minuit

avec ségolène.

SEPTEMBER:

minutes hide behind familiar words,

their bloodshot eyes blind to learning.

help me! aidez-moi!

mais pourquoi? the mirror's lips only whisper secrets.

ten days and only twelve faces. elle se moque de toi.

and i whistled in the rain.

OCTOBER:

with you, i want an adventure.

i know of sweaty hands who feared they'd lose their grasp,

grasp of what they'd already captured:

a submissive firefly in a cupped-hand cage, glowing only to be his light.

dreams, or rather hopeful predictions

of swimming pools in the rainy snow,

sheltered by the ceiling. darkness embraced by walls,

disrupted by a smile- two smiles.

water blurs my view and is in my nose,

but i feel a hand which takes my fingers captive,

puts them in straight jackets,

otherwise they'll go astray, in thought

and in movement

from here.

four legs propelling, treading upwards.

feet clumsily make the next, first, bad impressions

as chlorine fights our drowning seconds. and we pause the film and drown with them,take this picture as the last.

breathe in, and satisfy the thirst of lungs.

but as lips part they are met by others

and everything and nothing is lost.

DECEMBER:

listen to only words

lost in the laughter the pen writes,

the footprint stays.

he stays to remind me,

rappelle-moi, j'ai oublié

how to speak, how to sing.

is this rambling? je dévaugue.

peut-etre. or maybe?

crowded train station with a toilet paper tree.

benches full of eyes watching her read,

i'm reading

is this rambling?

JANUARY:

mi chiamo jordanna

sono l'amica di sabina

sono americana

parlo inglese e francese

i came here with a hug and two kissed cheeks.

an artist told me

i was an artist, in english

now useless but always used.

how do i feel?

FEBRUARY:

est-ce que tu crois que

i laugh to be heard

and then run from those who hear?

est-ce que tu crois que

je crois que

i don't know what it is to believe?

fallen leaves in disguise of winter

still crumble.

sa beauté s'est fanée.

i used to look through the train's window,

seeing open fields interrupted by a cobblestone

road, harsh to my clenched hands and tires of my bike.

seeing "linkebeek" graffitied in green,

words i can not comprehend-

only colors.

i'd feel the trembling of the train

as he passed another;

his strength rendered weak by an attraction

of what he would be, of what he would say.

a force of fear and desire, aimless adventure.

he knew me,he spoke me-

a language i did not know.

MARCH:

bent comb bristles smile

like my mirror's crooked teeth
tangled by intent to defy a childhood
ashamed of natural tendency,
drowned in tear-free
strawberry scented spray
from something like a fish.
these bristles bend to free
what is now creation.

1 comments:

so, so, so gorgeous. reading this made me extremely nostalgic-- reliving those experiences through your words was so incredible. i feel like we probably noticed a lot of the same things... i love stream-of-consciousness writing (and reading it even more so!) it sounds like your year painted a portrait that you will constantly hold onto... you have made it your own. in combination with that, i've been studying verlaine in my poesie francaise class here in good old PA, and he, more than anyone, seems to have gotten it right. enjoy your last few days, write them like a story. they will stay with you more than anything.